


Eye for an Eye

by Anonymous



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Eye Trauma, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Season/Series 04, Whump, Work In Progress, pairings and tags will be added if and when they become relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Just another garden-variety murder scene in New York City.  Joan is bored already, although it's nice to be out in the sunshine -- until Sherlock is attacked in broad daylight, when they're standing in the midst of a bunch of police and a crowd of witnesses.  Who assaulted him, and why?  And will he recover?
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28
Collections: Anonymous





	1. An Average Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. I'll update it as I get inspired. I'm pretty obsessed with this show right now, so I couldn't wait until it was finished to post. :)
> 
> This is set sometime in Season 4, but the exact episode doesn't matter much -- just early on. It diverges from canon, so it doesn't matter. It's really just because I've only watched through episode 16 of season 4 so far, so I don't want to mess with anything that comes after.

Joan tried not to smile as they walked through the wet grass -- it wasn’t exactly appropriate for a murder scene. It was just hard not to feel good today. The sun was finally shining after several days of cold, grey rain, and the sky was clear, deep blue. Spring was _finally_ on its way.

Even Sherlock seemed in good spirits today. Admittedly that had less to do with the weather than it did with a crime popping up after a two-week drought, but since it distracted him from his ill-tempered determination to turn their living room into a giant petri dish, she wasn’t going to quibble over the details.

She should have known he would notice that she was in a good mood.

“It is exciting, isn’t it?” he said brightly -- a rhetorical question, of course. “Two murders in the same park, but apparently _completely_ unrelated?”

“Not what I’d call exciting, but if you say so,” she replied, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder.

She was already imagining being able to go outside again and putting away her winter coats and socks….

“You got a look at the bodies?”

She looked up at the new voice -- Captain Gregson and Marcus fell into step with them. They had already had their look at the bodies and were trying to do a little crowd control while she and Sherlock examined the scene.

Sherlock was practically vibrating now. “We did! I’m already theorising how the crimes could have been committed so close to one another without being related -- and _without_ one murderer hearing the other.”

Marcus frowned. “We assumed that either the times of death were off from each other, so with it being dark, they wouldn’t have noticed that there was another body ten feet away; or else one killer brought their body here so people would think they were both killed by the same person.”

“No!” Sherlock said cheerfully. “You can wait for the report, of course, but I think it will show that the murders were committed at the same time, in the same location, by two different people -- and I think they _did_ hear each other, but why would they bring attention to themselves by reporting the other crime?”

“So this is no different from any _other_ two crimes that took place literally anywhere else in the city and _weren’t_ ten feet apart,” Joan pointed out dryly.

“ _Possibly_ ,” Sherlock emphasised, “but it may well be that --”

The four of them came to a stop as a man stepped out from behind a tree, directly into their path. The hairs on Joan’s arms stood up -- the man was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, pulled up and low over his face, and a bandana covered the lower half of his face. Sunglasses obscured his eyes. It wasn’t reassuring at any time, but near the scene of two murders?

“Sir, this is a crime scene,” Gregson began.

The man ignored him. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

His voice was high -- young. It fit with his body type and height. He was probably eighteen, maybe twenty.

Sherlock squinted at him, likely taking in the same details as she and more. “Can I help you?”

The young man stepped closer. Joan drew a breath, alarm bells going off in her mind -- his hands were in the pocket of his hoodie, for now, but they were moving -- what was he holding?

“I have a message for you,” he said.

He was fast. Joan knew Sherlock had fantastic reflexes, but even he wasn’t ready to dodge the spray that came at his face -- directly at his eyes.

“Hey!” Marcus shouted, but the young man was already sprinting away.

Marcus took off after him, yelling into his radio for backup.

Sherlock was bent double, screaming in pain, his hands clapped over his face.

“Sherlock, move your hands!” Joan shouted, shoving him to his knees and trying to get him to flip.

He ignored her, still screaming -- _wailing,_ like a wounded animal.

Gregson was talking into his radio, too, calling for an ambulance. Good, but not good enough.

“Help me!” she barked. “I need him to lie on his back and get his hands off his face, and I need clean water to flush out his eyes. We need to flush them for thirty minutes, ASAP!”

The order for clean water was relayed to the officers milling around helplessly. Even the ones who didn’t like Sherlock looked frightened. They snapped into motion with something to do, running for water bottles from their patrol cars or the drinking fountains in the park. The remainder continued to keep the crowd of gawkers at bay.

Gregson and another officer helped her wrangle Sherlock to his back. He wasn’t fighting them, exactly, but he’d gone rigid with pain and seemed either unable or unwilling to resist the instinct to curl in on himself. Joan straddled him, pinning his hands under her knees after Gregson managed to pry them off his face.

“Shit,” Gregson breathed with a faintly horrified expression.

She swallowed hard in agreement, shoving down her feelings. She’d seen chemical burns before. This was no different.

“Hold his head still,” she told the officer kneeling beside them.

He nodded quickly and trapped Sherlock’s thrashing head between his knees.

Sherlock let out a pitiful sound -- inhuman, almost.

Joan repressed the part of her that was trying to look at this through an emotional lens more firmly. The first water bottle was shoved into her hand -- finally. That was one minute and twenty-six seconds of chemical exposure.

She cracked open the bottle, tossing the cap aside, and poured it directly over Sherlock’s twitching eyelids and already bloodshot eyes. It drew another wail from him and he bucked beneath her, but they had him firmly trapped, and he wasn’t coherent enough to break loose.

The bottle was empty much too soon. She handed it off and was immediately given another full one, this one already opened for her. She continued pouring, ensuring that she wasn’t neglecting the surrounding skin of his orbital socket, his nose, but mostly focusing her efforts on his eyes. The lids and surrounding soft tissue were unnaturally red and blotchy, swelling already despite her efforts.

Something extremely corrosive, then, given how quickly it had acted. A common chemical mixture like spray paint would cause problems if not flushed eventually, but after only a minute and a half, it wouldn’t already have his skin looking like he’d suffered severe second-degree burns.

Sherlock quieted somewhere around the fourth bottle, though his breathing remained rapid and shallow. He still twitched from time to time, generally when she started pouring again when handed a new bottle of water. The police had set up an assembly line of runners to refill the bottles as they were emptied when the Captain explained what Joan had said about needing to flush the eyes for thirty minutes. She’d never appreciated their organisation more than now.

“The ambulance should be here in twenty,” Gregson said tightly.

Sherlock twitched again. A soft sound escaped him -- Joan didn’t want to acknowledge it as a whimper.

His eyes were completely red now, from what she could see through the swelling. The sclera was full of blood, likely from burst vessels -- no white remained.

“We need to keep this going even after they get here, until they indicate they’re ready to take over,” she said curtly, as though she was back in the OR.

Gregson nodded. “Copy that.”

That message was relayed along the line of cops and acknowledged as well.

“Any idea what kind of chemical that was?”

Joan shook her head, watching Sherlock’s eyelids as they fluttered impotently against the steady stream of water. His eyelashes were gone, she noted idly.

“Something highly corrosive or fast-acting or both,” she said, unable to mask the anger welling deep in her gut. “Whoever did this didn’t just want Sherlock blinded, they wanted him dead. If he had been alone, it could well have eaten through to his brain before he could get help, depending on what kind it was.”

Gregson grimaced at the thought. Sherlock twitched and whined again -- apparently he was coherent now, enough to register what she was saying.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, we got to this long before it could do that,” Joan hurried to reassure him. “Now it’s just a matter of seeing what damage was already done, but it’s not going to do any _more_ \-- that’s why we’re flushing it out.”

He swallowed audibly, his lips trembling. “I can’t see,” he choked.

“Because I’m pouring water on your face and your eyes are swollen shut,” she said matter-of-factly -- they had, in fact, swollen shut while she talked. “Try to stay calm, okay? The ambulance is coming.”

The sound of pounding footsteps and heavy breathing made her look up sharply, but it was only Marcus drawing to a halt beside them and shaking his head.

“We lost him, but we pulled the plates off his car,” he reported before jerking his chin at Sherlock. “How’s he doing?”

He got a good look at Sherlock right after he said it, and his expression of horror and shock said enough.

“We’re waiting on the ambulance,” Joan said, rather than trying to answer that.

He nodded in understanding and walked toward the parking lot, grabbing the officers who’d accompanied him on his chase, likely to make a path for the paramedics when they arrived.

She returned her focus to flushing his face of chemicals and didn’t deviate from it until the ambulance finally arrived.

Sherlock remained silent, but for the occasional, deeply disturbing whimper of pain.


	2. The Immediate Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is less than pleased with the identity of one of his visitors when he awakens in hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter hit me fast! I know we're only two chapters in, but I'm having a lot of fun already. I hope y'all enjoy it, too. :)

Captain Gregson wasn’t good at waiting. Joan had noted it many times before. Before she knew them so well, she would have expected Marcus to be the one who fidgeted and couldn’t sit still. As it turned out, Marcus was that way when his brother was shot, but the rest of the time, he could sit or stand and wait for hours before he got restless and wanted answers.

Well, not today. Joan mentally reassessed Marcus -- it wasn’t just _family_ being injured that caused him to be restless, but people he cared about in general. Marcus and Gregson had taken turns pacing the waiting room and making runs to the vending machines or for coffee. Any excuse that kept them in action.

She understood the feeling. Just… _sitting_ here felt so useless. But they had sent out the sketch of the man who had attacked Sherlock, they had a team running his plates, and _another_ team on the double homicide. Sherlock was in surgery right now, so there was, quite literally, nothing for them to do right now.

“How can they do surgery on his eyes, anyway?” Gregson asked suddenly.

She looked up from her phone. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the stand of brochures with his jaw set in that way it did when he was angry and upset but had no channel for it.

“Ophthalmology isn’t my specialty,” she began carefully, “but they might debride the cornea -- remove any foreign material, to reduce the swelling and irritation. The same for the surrounding skin. They’ll probably also continue to flush the eyes. There’s an IV attachment they can use -- it’s a little like a contact lens, except that they can direct a saline flush directly against the corneas with it. It’s technically not surgery at that point, but it’s easier if the patient is out, since it can feel a little weird, and you don’t want anyone panicking and injuring themselves further.”

Gregson sucked his teeth. “What are the chances that this will blind him?”

Joan’s heart clenched, but she shook her head, forcing a comforting smile. “There’s no way of knowing that until he’s healed. For now, they’ll try to keep his eyes as relaxed as possible. It’s likely he’ll be wearing patches or bandages for a while, to keep him from straining them until he’s healed.”

Marcus snorted, tucking his arms a little tighter against his chest. “You really think Holmes will leave them on?”

“I think he will if he wants his eyes to heal,” she sighed, already anticipating the arguments to come. “With eye injuries, there’s a lot of risk of infection -- if he doesn’t keep his eyes bandaged, then that risk increases considerably, and if they get infected, then he might not just go blind, he might have to have his eyes removed.”

Marcus and Gregson both shuddered, pulling the exact same face. It would have been funny, under other circumstances.

“Is anyone else on the way?” Gregson asked in a very obvious attempt to change the subject. He wouldn’t normally ask such a thing, since they all knew that Sherlock’s pool of friends might charitably be described as “limited.”

Joan nodded anyway. “Alfredo was at a meeting, but he got my message and texted me that he’s on his way.”

Ms. Hudson wasn’t in town, but she didn’t mention her, uncertain whether or not they even knew of her. Joan didn’t feel like explaining that interesting lady right now, if they didn’t know who she was.

That was the beginning and end of the list. She had debated a long time about contacting Morland, but since Sherlock’s life wasn’t in danger and she knew how he felt about his father, she ultimately decided not to reach out to him. He might find out anyway, but she wasn’t going to be responsible for bringing him here. It wouldn’t help Sherlock’s recovery if he was tense and upset.

They both nodded, pacing away some more. Marcus was rubbing his hands together, antsy for something to do.

She understood the feeling.

*

The first sensation was pain. Not like it was when the anesthetic took effect. This was dull, but constant, not a sharp throb.

The next thing he catalogued was the scratchy starchy feeling all over. Sheet, bandages, hospital gown. The drag on his body hair pinched and itched, but it was negligible enough for him to move on.

Plastic around one wrist -- identification bracelet. The pinch of the monitor on his index finger. A nasal cannula, of course. Standard hospital accoutrements.

The scents in the air were mostly expected. Antisceptic cleaning chemicals. Medicines. Plastics and starched cloths.

But also gun oil, leather shoes -- Watson’s perfume.

Watson.

“Watson,” he tried to say. It came out as more of a rasp, faint and whistling in his dry throat.

A shift of weight, the rustle of cloth. “Sherlock? Are you awake?”

Watson’s voice was gentle and soft -- her “doctor speaking with an ill patient” voice.

“Talking in his sleep again, probably,” said another voice -- Alfredo.

“No, his vitals are picking up,” Watson said, her voice turning to “deduction mode.”

Sherlock swallowed with some difficulty. Hopefully that could be remedied soon.

“Watson,” he tried again, and hesitantly lifted his hand, his fingers tingling when they encountered the air cushion around her. Actually, they tingled in general, he noted. Not quite pain, but sensitive. Chemical burns from when he put his hands over his face, more than likely, milder because the smaller amount rubbed off onto his hands as compared to the large amount applied directly to his face.

He heard the heart monitor beep in quick succession to represent the little start he gave when her hand enveloped his.

“Sherlock,” she said with obvious relief. Her other hand smoothed down his hair. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment to work up more spit. The acrid taste of anesthetic when his tongue touched the roof of his mouth solved the mystery of his dry mouth and throat.

“Thirsty,” he said, though he considered it somewhat unfortunate that he currently lacked the tone control to make it clear how obvious he thought that was.

“I can get you some ice chips, but they said no water for a couple hours,” said a third voice -- Marcus.

He was out the door before Sherlock could answer. The scent of gun oil didn’t dissipate, so there was another cop in the room. Hopefully a cop, anyway. He breathed in slowly, catching another whiff, and identified Captain Gregson’s preferred brand of aftershave.

He might have relaxed, had he not smelled yet another person in the room. He hadn’t placed that scent yet. Perhaps when his head didn’t feel so fuzzy anymore.

“Any dizziness? Weakness?” Watson asked gently, her expert fingers feeling around the edges of the bandage wrapped around his head, blocking his vision.

“No,” he said, after a moment to collect himself again. “Just…fuzzy. From the anesthetic, no doubt.”

She sat back, apparently satisfied. Sherlock was surprised when her hand slid out of his, reflexively clenching to hold it in place several seconds too late.

“Yes, you haven’t been in recovery very long. It’ll take a while to wear off, and then they’ll take you to a room.”

Sherlock immediately frowned at the thought -- and immediately regretted it, hissing when the pain spiked.

“You may want to avoid too much facial movement,” Watson scolded him, though her tone was sympathetic. “They didn’t have to do any skin grafts, but the burns were still pretty bad.”

“I noticed,” he grunted unhappily, smoothing his expression as best he could. It was more difficult after he was aware of how each tiny muscle caused a spasm of pain many times its size. “I don’t want a room, I want to go home.”

“You’ve at least gotta stay here overnight,” Alfredo said, his shrug evident in the rustle of his clothing.

“Alfredo’s right,” Watson agreed immediately. “They have to monitor you after the anesthetic, and they can give you non-opioid pain medications here that they can’t prescribe to you over the counter.”

“I think Tylenol would be just as effective,” Sherlock grumbled.

The conversation was, thankfully, cut off when Marcus returned. His search for ice chips had apparently been successful, given the rattle in the plastic cup he handed off to Watson.

Sherlock jerked his head away despite the pain when he felt something cold at his lips. He certainly wasn’t going to be fed in front of Marcus and the Captain and Alfredo! And….

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. But surely not -- that other silent presence couldn’t be….

“I thought you were thirsty,” the Captain said, half amused and half exasperated.

“I am, but I can do it myself,” Sherlock grumped -- though at this point, his foul temper was due more to having his observations interrupted. It was difficult enough to tune into another person’s breathing patterns, particularly when that person was across the room, without having people talking as well.

“Fine,” Watson said, shoving the cup into his hand. “Knock yourself out.”

She sounded more amused and relieved than irritated. Apparently she accepted that sort of stubbornness as normal for him. Sherlock couldn’t very well deny it, either.

It took some doing, but he got out an ice chip and popped it into his mouth without too much trouble. He’d done enough sensory deprivation exercises and trained in the dark enough to be able to know where his hand was in relation to the rest of his body.

That meant his focus was free to zero in on that silent presence….

“Aren’t you going to ask about the man that did this to you?” Marcus asked, a trifle impatiently.

Sherlock froze for a moment, indecision halting his thought processes. They were both rather urgent mysteries, in his view.

But he was fairly certain who the silent person in the room was now -- that moment of hesitation had allowed him to gather the last bit of relevant data. Nobody else here would wear that cologne.

“I was getting to that,” he said lightly, “but first I should like to know what my father is doing here. I would have thought everyone would know me well enough not to call him.”

The tension in the air immediately thickened. His friends went curiously silent.

“They didn’t call me,” Morland Holmes said, his tone heavy with reluctance. “I was informed by a friend of mine and came myself.”

Sherlock’s empty hand tightened in the blankets until he could feel his pulse between his knuckles and the tingling from the mild burns turned to pain. “Why?”

“I thought I could be of some use in tracking the person responsible. The police have certain methods and avenues of information, and I have others. I supposed that a collaboration would be advantageous in this case.”

His jaw tightened, too. “ _Why?_ ”

“I’ve just told you,” Morland said, clipping his syllables the way he did when he was getting annoyed. “If you would rather that the person responsible for your injury is free to make a second attempt on your life, I can take my _considerable resources_ and go.”

Sherlock blew out an annoyed breath through his nose, but he was -- no, he wouldn’t call it fear. He wasn’t _afraid_ of the man who had attacked him. He would heal, and that man would be caught.

_But_ …. He was vulnerable, for now, and it would be more expedient to accept help from any quarter.

“We could use some help on this one,” the Captain spoke up, his unhappiness with the situation clear. “Since he was mostly covered and the car he drove off in was stolen, we don’t have any leads.”

“We don’t even know what chemical compound was used to attack you, so we can’t even trace that back to its source,” Marcus added. “There wasn’t enough left to get a sample from your eyes or skin by the time you got here.”

Sherlock blew out another breath. “Fine. Fine, stay, help. But since you volunteered, don’t expect any favours in return.”

“Very well,” Morland said mildly, almost amused, as though accepting a deal he found to be outrageously skewed to his advantage without the other party’s knowledge.

Sherlock couldn’t think of any reason for that, but he didn’t particularly want to think about his father at all, not right now -- well, to be quite honest, not _ever_.

“Alfredo, you said you would tell me about the car you were working on,” he said, snapping his attention to his former sponsor.

It was partly to avoid talking to his father anymore, but partly genuine interest.

“Yeah, I did,” Alfredo said, and a chair squeaked across the floor as he dragged it closer.

“We’re gonna take off,” the Captain said, the direction of his voice indicating that he was talking to Watson. “Since he’s okay right now.”

“Let us know if either of you needs anything,” Marcus added. “And we’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Watson said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll text you the room number after they move him out of recovery.”

They said their goodbyes, and thankfully, Sherlock noted that his father went with them. He was able to relax, then, and listen to Alfredo with his full attention.

Mostly full attention. Watson was silent beside them, and he was a little disturbed to realise that he couldn’t tell what she was doing by hearing or smell. He knew that she was still there by the sound of her breathing and the smell of her perfume and her fear sweat from the morning’s incident, but that was all. It was distracting, the not knowing.

His hand twitched, his fingers still tingling, though whether from the burns or the emptiness, he could not say.


	3. The Investigation Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregson gets acquainted with Morland. Sherlock goes home, despite Watson's misgivings.

Gregson eyed the man beside him. Morland Holmes was somehow everything and nothing like he’d expected. The arrogance, the surety that he was smarter than everyone around him that Gregson associated with Holmes -- that was there, underneath a layer of condescending conciliation. This man was used to getting his way, both by virtue of his power and by his ability to smooth ruffled feathers. He knew when to threaten and when to soothe. Even the way he walked, calm and unbothered by Gregson’s observation, gave an impression of contained power.

There was something slimy about it that Gregson didn’t like. He preferred Holmes’s straightforward arrogance to this. At least Holmes never pretended to be giving anyone concessions when he talked. Either you were right, you were wrong, or you were so stupid you weren’t worth his time -- that was just Holmes.

Right now, they were heading up to Gregson’s office to review some footage. One of the cops was wearing a body cam, and apparently one of the gawkers had come forward and surrendered their footage of the incident. Why he was filming a police investigation of a homicide was beyond Gregson’s willingness to understand.

“So you’re Sherlock’s dad,” Gregson said while they waited for the elevator.

Morland’s seemingly permanent smirk deepened. “I am.”

They stepped inside the elevator and Gregson jabbed the button. Marcus hurried in after them and tucked himself into a corner with his phone, unwilling to get involved.

“Am I what you were expecting?” Morland asked after a pause, a hint of amusement in his tone, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

So that was where Holmes got his tendency to needle people, too.

Gregson sniffed. “More or less,” he said grudgingly.

Morland nodded. “Good. I should hate to disappoint.”

The elevator opened then, thank goodness, and Gregson stepped out, leading the way to his office.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on _what_ he didn’t like about the guy, but there was definitely _something_ that raised his hackles. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d ever had to deal with a smarmy rich guy and keep his cool, but for some reason Morland got under his skin, and they’d only known each other for a couple of hours now.

“I feel I should point out that this will likely be a waste of our time,” Morland said when Gregson waved him inside.

He stepped in regardless, his eyes flicking over everything almost dismissively.

Marcus ground his jaw. “And I suppose you have a better idea.”

“I have a few contacts who may have more revealing information,” he said, his tone light but full of underlying meaning.

Gregson’s hackles only raised further. He exchanged an irritated look with Marcus, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. Holmes might be a pain in the ass at times, but he had respect for the rules. Even if he sometimes used methods they wouldn’t approve of to get their guy, at the end of the day, he always found a way to bring them to justice that would fly in court.

Maybe that was the difference. Holmes wanted _justice_ for criminals. Gregson hadn’t figured out what Morland’s game was yet, but it had nothing to do with justice, he was sure of that.

“We do this one _by the book_ ,” he said loudly, in the tone he usually reserved for Holmes when he was having one of his temper tantrums. “We want whoever did this to Holmes to get what he deserves _as prescribed by the law_.”

Morland gave a tiny, indifferent little shrug. “As you wish.”

It wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. Gregson’s warning glares didn’t seem to have any effect on Morland the way they did on Holmes, though he supposed that wasn’t surprising. Morland had volunteered to help for the sake of his son, but he didn’t actually _need_ to cooperate with them. Holmes, on the other hand, had to heed Gregson to some extent if he wanted to keep working with them.

Well, and Gregson sometimes suspected that Holmes was aware of his own excesses to a certain degree and he liked having people around him who would alert him that he was crossing a line, no matter how frustrated he was at the time.

“Right,” he said, struggling to shake off how disgruntled he felt -- among other emotions. He didn’t have time for his feelings right now, not if he was going to help Sherlock. “Let’s look at the tapes.”

Marcus settled in behind him, arms folded and his weight balanced comfortably, utterly focused.

Morland took up a position where he could see the screen, but the feeling of amusement, rather than concentration, remained, like the smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

Gregson forced his attention to his screen and pressed play, determined to ignore the older Holmes for now.

*

“I really, really think you should stay a few days.”

“An opinion you have made abundantly clear since I awoke this morning.”

Sherlock continued buttoning his shirt, smiling a little at Watson’s sigh. Dressing was admittedly a longer process when he couldn’t see what he was doing. He’d already buttoned it incorrectly once when he missed a hole because he was rushing, a fact Watson had immediately seized on as “proof” that he wasn’t well enough to go home. He’d shut down that line of thought by illustrating that he was just as sharp as ever through listing everything she’d eaten that morning and giving an entire list of deductions about the nurse in the room based solely on scent and sound. The nurse proved he was correct by becoming uncomfortable and leaving -- though he didn’t see why she thought consuming Smarties for breakfast was embarrassing enough to leave the room.

“I know you hate being in the hospital, but this isn’t going to be easy to deal with at home,” Watson began again, apparently convinced that trying another tact would get her what she wanted. “There are drops that have to be put in your eyes multiple times per day, the dressing will need changed, not to mention the fact that there will be more obstacles --”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s our _home_ , Watson. I can say with total confidence that I can navigate it whilst blindfolded, particularly because I have voluntarily done so on several occasions.”

Watson sighed again. “I’m not even going to ask why.”

“And as for the complications of the drops and the bandages, that is why it’s so fortunate for me that you are a former surgeon,” he concluded with just a bit of smugness.

“Yes, but home is not sterile,” she said, clearly growing exasperated. “The route from the hospital to home is not sterile -- and I don’t think you’ve navigated _that_ blindfolded.”

“I have not, but since I’ll mostly be riding in a car and I’ll have you with me, I fail to see this as an insurmountable obstacle.”

He heard the slap of her hand against her purse as she made some gesture to express her frustration. His mouth drew down as he absorbed how truly _against_ this she was -- even Alfredo had only given a token effort before he left for work to get Sherlock to stay. Watson, however, was giving every indication that she was deeply upset by his refusal to stay in hospital.

“You do realise that until my attacker is caught, I’m no safer here than I was at the park, surrounded by police officers,” he pointed out as reasonably as he could.

This was a legitimate fear -- not that _he_ was afraid, but Watson wouldn’t be out of bounds to fear a repeat attack.

“Somehow that fails to make me feel any better about you being at our house,” she said flatly.

“It should,” he said, sliding off the hospital bed carefully. The floor was rather reassuring under his feet -- unexpectedly so. Hmm. “At home, we have security in place -- sturdy locks, privacy, the ability to screen anyone wishing to gain access. Here, anyone who can steal a medical badge and a pair of scrubs could get to me.”

He stopped talking and waited, rubbing his healing fingers against each other while he let Watson process that. He could almost _feel_ how she turned it over in her mind, seeing the sense in what he’d said.

It was true, so she wouldn’t be able to deny it. Not that Sherlock was afraid of such a thing happening, but that part wasn’t important.

“All right, but you _will_ do everything I say with regard to your injury,” she said, her voice gaining that hard edge that meant she would not negotiate this point. He could see her standing with one hip canted forward and her hand pointed at him to emphasis her point as clearly as if his eyes weren’t currently wrapped in layers of bandages. “Drops at the appropriate times, fresh dressings when needed, and _no_ experiments. I mean it, Sherlock, you don’t mess with your eyes and infection, it’s not pretty.”

Victory. He bounced on his toes and smiled.

“Of course,” he agreed happily. “I have no desire to lose my eyeballs to an ill-advised attempt at stubbornness, I assure you. I just wish to be in familiar environs, with familiar people.”

He waved his hands to indicate their surroundings, which were most assuredly _not_ familiar, at least not compared with home.

As expected, that softened her. She was predictable in many ways, but unlike other people, he found that predictability comforting -- partly because she was very much _not_ predictable in other ways. There was some solid ground, here, that helped make her such a reliable presence.

“Yes, I guess that’s understandable,” she murmured, and he heard her cross to the chair where one of the nurses had left his coat. “Here -- it’s still a little chilly out, so you should wear your coat.”

Sherlock tried not to be too smug about it, which became a little easier when he needed her help to get his coat buttoned. It was slightly more complex than his shirt because of the double rows, and he’d apparently underestimated how often he looked to guide himself while buttoning it normally.

Watson was helpful when leaving, too. She linked her arm with his and murmured soft warnings to him when they reached a turn or needed to dodge someone coming through. He still found himself stumbling a little bit, but with her warnings and gentle guidance, he remained on his feet and they were able to move at close to normal speed. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the very obvious dressing wound around his head, they probably would have looked like a couple out for a stroll, he thought, ignoring the twinge he felt.

Still, he made a mental note to try his blindfolded exercises in different areas with more noise interference after his eyes were healed. The acoustics of the hospital and the crowds of bustling doctors and nurses were throwing off his senses of balance and location. He was grateful for her arm in his more than once -- she didn’t drag or pull at him, but when he stumbled or swayed, she immediately stiffened, creating a counter for him to push against to regain his balance.

“Have you helped many blind people in your life, Watson?” he asked when they emerged and she surreptitiously helped him find the rail to the steps. “You’re very good at it.”

“No, actually,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “I took an O&M class, though, so I learned the theory.”

“O&M?”

He somehow doubted she meant “observations and measurements” or “Ohio and Mississippi Railway.”

“Orientation & Mobility,” she explained, steadying him when he misjudged the distance between the steps. He nodded his thanks and they resumed without hiccup after that, his calculation corrected. “O&M professionals are the people who train blind people how to get around, how to use a cane, that kind of thing. They help both people who were born blind and people who’ve lost their vision later in life. I’ll have to see if I can get a good recommendation for one if --”

She stopped abruptly. Her voice had gone raspy at the end.

Sherlock stiffened, blowing out an irritated breath. “I’m not _actually_ blind, Watson. I doubt I’m going to need one of those for the week or so until my corneas heal.”

“Right,” she agreed, but there was a false quality to her tone, no matter how cheerful she tried to sound.

Or maybe it was just his awareness of how her hand had tightened around his arm.

He released his irritation with some difficulty. Other people deserved it; Watson did not. She cared, that was all. He focused on how her worry warmed him and not how ill-founded it was.

His doctor had only spoken with him once, but she’d sounded overly cautious, too. “If” and “perhaps” and “we’ll see.” Sherlock had had no use for her sugarcoating and dismissed her in short order.

He’d had medical attention very rapidly, provided by Watson herself, and then spent however long getting the remainder of the chemical removed whilst unconscious. He wasn’t in any pain, didn’t have any numbness or tingling. He was knowledgeable enough not to feel that his view of this injury as temporary was optimistic.

She’d see, soon enough. He was supposed to come back to get the dressings removed and have some tests in three days, and then she’d see -- he was going to be fine. Nothing would change.

“Have you heard from Marcus or the Captain?” he asked, opting to change the subject for now.

He heard the tell-tale sound of tires slowing on pavement and waited patiently for her answer until after she’d helped him into the taxi and got in the other side.

“Marcus texted me this morning,” she said, businesslike again.

He was a little perturbed when she stayed on her side of the car, not touching him at all, though he couldn’t say exactly why. He tucked his hands between his thighs to curb the urge to reach out to her instead.

“And?”

“Nothing yet,” she said with an unhappy sigh. “The footage didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know, and the same with interviewing witnesses. Marcus said that your father says it’s time to do it ‘his’ way, but the Captain isn’t thrilled at the idea and is trying to get your father to explain what ‘his’ way is today before he gives the okay.”

Sherlock grimaced. “A wise decision. Captain Gregson is unlikely to approve of anything my father is involved in. Although my father is just as unlikely to actually answer any of his questions.”

“I guess we’ll find out -- I just texted Marcus that I’m taking you home and he said he’s bringing us something to eat so I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone on your first night home.”

He would have rolled his eyes if he could have. “It’s not another planet. Such concern seems excessive.”

“He’s bringing my favourite, so if you tell him that it’s unnecessary, I’ll put _your_ food in Clyde’s bath bowl before I give it to you.”

Sherlock decided that it was a battle worth losing and changed the subject again. Well, after he was done processing the turn the vehicle made. The vibrations and noise of a car were always somewhat disturbing to his senses, but it felt just different enough while blindfolded that it grabbed his attention anew.

“Without more information, I can’t properly theorise on the identity of my attacker, but I would posit that it was too flagrantly public to be anything but a threat. He wanted us and everyone around us to know that he can get to me any time he wants, regardless of circumstance. I was surrounded by _police_ and still successfully attacked, so it’s most certainly meant to be a message.”

“As evidenced by the fact that he said, ‘I have a message for you,’ right before he attacked you.”

“Precisely.” He frowned and sucked at his teeth while his mind whirred through possibilities. He had made a great many enemies in his career, but this was a special brand of malice. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was Moriarty’s work.”

Watson made a strange, soft sound. “The thought had occurred to me, but since she always gives strict orders _not_ to hurt you, even after we got her imprisoned, I don’t think it’s her. At least, she has no reason to suddenly turn around and want to hurt you if she didn’t want it before.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Unfortunately, that leaves me with a surfeit of candidates. I’m responsible for the incarceration of a great many criminals.”

“But not many with that Moriarty flair,” Watson pointed out.

He couldn’t argue with that, and yet….

“It’s got all of the power of Moriarty but none of the subtlety. It took me years to track her down simply because it took me years to figure out that there was a criminal mastermind _to_ track down.”

Watson was tapping agitatedly on the seat in thought. “True, but she got considerably _less_ subtle after you figured out her existence.”

Somehow, the idea of it being Moriarty hurt -- which was ridiculous, of course, because it wasn’t like she was exactly trustworthy, was it? She’d hurt him in so many ways, it wasn’t as though this was a new concept.

“Ah, we’re here.”

Sherlock appreciated the warning even though he’d already gathered that from the taxi slowing to a stop. Confirmation that they were, indeed, in the right place based on his tracking of the taxi’s movements was reassuring and built his confidence.

He opened the door without waiting for Watson to come around the car and open it for him, happy to be home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, initial theories? I wonder who it could be....
> 
> I hope y'all are enjoying! :)


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